


Quarantine Fever

by Cantique



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Porn with some set up I guess., Smut, Usually I write prequels fic so i'm new to this school, Vaginal Fingering, catch me on the good website writing about getting fingered by kylo ren, i can only write insert characters if they're intelligence operatives, i don't usually take this bus, it's a brain problem, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantique/pseuds/Cantique
Summary: “Interesting,” he remarks. “No trauma. No significant loss or hardship. Just anger.” He gives a sharp exhale, and as you eye him from between your arms, you could almost mistake it for a chuckle. “You’re just a bitch.”Your teeth clench against each other, your pulse rising with the blatant insult. “Fuck you,” you wheeze, throwing caution to the wall. If he’s willing to call you a bitch, he’s already probably more than willing to kill you.“There it is.” The tiny smirk returns. “It always comes out eventually.”--You're the commander of a First Order Intelligence Unit. Kylo Ren is your superior. When a mission goes wrong and you end up in quarantine together, he quickly takes advantage of your anger management problem.--Inspired by me telling someone on another fic website to'catch me on the good website writing about getting fingered by kylo ren during quarantine'so here we are.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 140





	Quarantine Fever

**Author's Note:**

> I have been in state mandated quarantine IRL for like five days and if you thought I wan't going to write quarantine-fic, you were _sorely_ mistaken.

A gloved hand impacts the side of your face, the leather stinging as your head snaps to the side with the impact. It’s not a gentle hit, either. It’s hard enough to make you choke on your breath a little, forcing back a gasp or a cry that almost tumbles out of your throat as your hat hits the ground.

“Pathetic,” General Hux hisses, his face fixed in the scowl that everyone on the bridge is deeply familiar with. “I was told you’re the best, Commander.” The General pauses, eyes thinned, scanning you up and down as if you’ve come to the bridge covered in filth. In a way, you are. This is the First Order. Failure may as well be filth, especially for someone of your rank. “I was told you’re the best and you couldn’t even find a sixty year old junk ship!” Your head remains fixed in place to the side while you make a conscious effort to control your breathing. You wouldn’t dare move right now, let alone let on how angry you are. You’re the Commander of First Order Intelligence, and he’s a General. You don’t get to be angry at him. 

Not when Kylo Ren is standing behind him, watching intently, no doubt as furious at you as General Hux is. Hux is volatile; he’s violent, petty, easily frustrated and reactive to even the smallest of inconveniences. But Kylo Ren? Kylo Ren is deadly. 

You can see his hands balling into fists while you keep position, and for a moment worry he’s going to lash out again -- but he doesn’t. Instead, the General growls in frustration, turning on heel and pacing away. You inhale momentarily. 

“I have a lead,” you finally speak, being very careful to control your tone. You carefully turn your head to face the leadership on the bridge. Hux has stopped pacing. “We intercepted communications from a female of interes--”

“ _ When _ did I say you could speak?!” Hux roars, turning back to face you again, spit flying out of his mouth in absolute fury. “Your failure is one thing, but your complete insolence is--”

“Communications from who?” 

The temperature in the room seems to drop by a few degrees when his voice enters the mix, effectively silencing General Hux, the mask tilting curiously. 

As tempted as you are to focus on Ren, you instead shift your focus to General Hux momentarily, ensuring he’s done berating you before you respond. “A female of interest related to the Starkiller Incident, Sir.” You pause and read the room. Other than the personnel around you on the bridge who are focused on their tasks at their terminals, all attention is on you. “The signal was mostly encrypted and secure, but the encryption is similar to other Resistance codes that we’ve decoded in the past.” You hesitate, waiting for another objection, continuing when none are made. “With some additional time, Intelligence could--”

“Do it,” he interrupts. 

“This has been a waste of our time,” Hux snaps, turning to face Kylo Ren. “Allowing any more resources would be counterproductive to--”

“Intelligence will decrypt the message,” he once again cuts in, Hux’s mouth starting to curl upwards into his trademark snarl. “And the Commander will report to me.”

It’s incredibly apparent that General Hux wants to argue this -- but for all his flaws, he has, at the very least, a survival instinct. Kylo Ren’s outbursts are terrifying in comparison to the tantrums thrown by the General, and even without the threat of his rage, it’s inherently clear to all the First Order that Kylo Ren far outranks the General, despite what General Hux says. 

He takes a deep breath, his nostrils visibly flaring in rage before turning once more, storming past you and leaving the bridge in anger. 

It’s just the two of you now. Kylo Ren takes a few steps towards you, and you remain standing at attention, assuming that he’ll continue past you and leave the way General Hux did. However, just as it looks as though he’s about to pass you, he stops, the mask tilting downwards. 

“Your hat.”

Your hat is on the polished black steel floor of the bridge’s main walk, directly in front of his feet. You’re not really sure what he wants from you. It’s not exactly part of military protocol to bend over and pick up your hat in front of a superior... 

“Pick it up.”

You toss protocol out the window, prioritizing the order over propriety. If Kylo Ren tells you to do something, you do it. You quickly bend down, sweeping the hat from the floor and quickly pulling it back onto your head, part of you just as concerned with hiding how dishevelled the chignon that sits at the nape of your neck has become. You can’t see his eyes through that mask -- you’ve never seen him without it -- but you can feel them on you all the same as you resume standing at attention. 

“You’re angry.” He pauses, and you can swear he leans forward a little, such a small distance that it’s barely an inch.

You have no idea what to say to this. Of course you’re angry. You didn’t fail to find the ship they’re after at all. You actually succeeded in a way, or at least brought them closer than they were before. But General Hux wants results now, not in a few days, and he’s notoriously unrealistic. You fully expect that Kylo Ren is similar, if not the same. 

However, instead of further beratement, he merely continues on his way, passing you entirely, not so much as looking back. You hear the blast doors to the bridge close behind him as he exits, and you all but hunch over in relief once you realise.

* * *

“Do you have the data?”

It takes everything in you to not visibly jump at the sudden and very familiar voice. It’s not an easy voice to forget, after all. You’ve been hunched over your terminal for so long that it physically hurts your back to suddenly jump to attention, your back cracking as you straighten up. 

“No, sir,” you reply, your voice firm and professional as ever, honed over years of training. You’re in Intelligence, after all. Nothing is meant to phase you unless you want it to.

“Why are you still here?”

He has a point. It’s late into the night -- it could be early morning, honestly, you haven’t checked the clock in a while. You’re the only one still in the Intelligence Rooms. “We made some significant progress today, Sir,” you explain. Your back is still turned to him, but the sound of the air escaping his mask is growing louder. He’s getting closer. Usually, you’d be concerned by this. You’re one wrong move away from being on the receiving end of his lightsaber, as many other subordinates have been in the past. But honestly, you’re just frustrated. You were on a roll. In the zone. You were deeply focused on breaking this code and he’s broken your concentration. “I decided to continue until I was satisfied with the progress made.”

The sound of his breathing is so close to you now that you have to suppress a shiver. It’s only been two days. What does he expect? 

“I know about you,” he says. Your jaw involuntarily tenses. You have no idea what he’s talking about, but it’s almost never good. “I know why you’re so angry.”

There’s a long period of silence. Once again, you’ve left him without any idea what to say. “Sir… I--”

“Tuanul,” he interrupts. “You were the one who tracked down that pilot. You planted the spies. Brokered the information. Led us to the old man.” There’s a pause. He’s waiting to see if you’ll react. “General Hux took the credit when it came time to tell the Supreme Leader.” 

You find yourself holding your breath subconsciously. It’s true. But this is an interrogation. You can’t show your frustration. “General Hux is my superior, Sir,” you respond. 

“True. He is. But he wasn’t on Minfar with you, was he?” He asks. It’s rhetorical. All the groundwork you did to gather the data needed to find Resistance operatives was on you and your team. It was never somewhere meant for Hux. “How many did you kill in that village that was protecting the Resistance Engineer you were looking for? Twelve?”

Your shoulders tense up. “Fourteen, Sir.”

“Ah, yes. That’s right. And how many did you lose getting out?”

The Resistance Engineer had already sent a distress signal by the time you found her, and a huge force had arrived by the time you’d cleared the village out. “We lost six operatives, Sir.”

“Six out of eight. One survivor other than yourself.” You’re physically biting your tongue. The only reason they’d lost so many was because Hux had decided that their own distress signal wasn’t a priority. “There it is,” he remarks. “That anger. It’s always beneath the surface with you, I’ve noticed, but it’s interesting how strong it can get for someone so well trained. You’ll be of use to me.”

“Of course, Sir,” you respond, trying to downplay how uncomfortable you are, trying to pretend you didn’t just hear what he said. “How may I be of assistance?”

“A resistance distress signal,” he says plainly. “I need you to create one. You’ll then come with me to Dathomir.”

You blink. “Dathomir, Sir?”

“I want to try and lure her there. You will deploy the signal on Dathomir. I will handle the girl.”

You have questions, yes, but you know better than to ask them. “Of course, Sir. I’ll begin on the signal immediately.”

“Good.” He pauses for a second, another breath ringing in your ears, another shiver suppressed. “You won’t inform General Hux about this. Am I clear?” 

You can’t say you’ve ever really been afraid of Kylo Ren the same way some of your Operatives are. You’ve definitely been wary, yes. Of course you have. You’ve watched him take down entire Resistance units by himself as if they were nothing. But in this moment, you can absolutely understand why so many people in the First Order  _ are  _ afraid. Despite knowing this is a threat, his voice is totally calm. It’s not just cold. It’s chilling.

“Yes Sir,” you respond. “Perfectly clear.”

* * *

You stare at him, the blue pollen dusting over the black of his helmet and clothing as he stands on the other side of the stark white room. Dathomir was a disaster. The signalling tower he’d selected to broadcast the counterfeit distress signal from hadn’t been used in decades, and was overgrown with plant life as a result. Kylo Ren’s first response had been to cut it away, but by the time they realised the plants were releasing some kind of toxic spore, they were covered in the blue, powder like substance. It wasn’t until you discovered the insides of the signalling tower had been completely stripped that you realised you were trembling. Your lungs felt tight. Your eyes burned. You returned to the Supremecy, shivering all the way in your small transport.

Kylo Ren had control over most things on the Supremacy, but unfortunately, despite his protests, mandatory quarantine after your escapade was unavoidable. The pollen carries a viral disease that, despite having a short lifespan, is extremely infectious. No one on the ship can risk spreading it. Not even Kylo Ren.

So you both sit in this stark white quarantine room, one bed on each side, entirely enclosed spare for a few small slots that can be opened and closed from the other side for food. 

While Kylo Ren is seemingly fine on the other side of the room, you are completely wrecked by the fever. You stopped caring about protocol about an hour ago when you discarded the upper half of your uniform, desperate to cool down, and you sit on the bed in nothing but your uniform pants and a plain, standard issue under singlet. You’ve sweat straight through it and you don’t doubt he can probably see your bra through the fabric, but you’re probably going to be discharged after this, anyway.

“It’s not going to take that long,” he finally says, speaking for the first time since the medical team (backed up by Hux) had informed you through the room’s communication system that there would be no exception to their quarantine procedures. He walks towards the food slots, clearly aggravated. “This won’t take twenty six hours.” He raises his voice, as if ordering the person on the other side -- but there’s no response. You wonder how he’s not as destroyed by this infection as you are. Maybe the force makes him immune.

“I don’t think there’s anyone there,” you offer, your voice cracking. 

He doesn’t respond to this. Instead, he turns around, moving back to the cot on his side of the room, taking a seat and reaching up to clutch the sides of his helmet. There’s a loud click, and then a hiss.

Kylo Ren takes off his helmet, placing it down on the cot beside him.

You’ve never seen him without it before. It’s hardly a secret -- you know of people on the Supremacy who’ve seen his face before, but it’s not something you’ve ever experienced. It’s not what you were expecting, although, you have to admit that you don’t know what you expected under there. You’ve hardly given it much thought, really. 

The way he’s looking at you right now, though, is just as intimidating as the mask. You can’t place the expression, though. Your first reaction is to interpret it as anger, but it’s not. It’s something else. Something different. 

“You’re angry.”

Your jaw tenses again, not knowing what that statement is meant to achieve. Of course you’re angry. He took you from your hard earned station, dragged you to an all but deserted planet and recklessly exposed you to some kind of toxic disease. It’s hard to hide it right now. “No,” you lie. “Just sick.”

His eyes thin just a tiny bit, and it’s then you notice that while he’s not unwell to the same level as you, he’s still managed to gather a thin sheen of sweat. “You’re lying,” he says, his voice blunt, a certain edge to it without the mask. “You’re angry at me.”

“I’m going to be angry if you don’t stop.” It just tumbles out of your mouth, your eyes drifting to the small sink in the room. You’re playing with fire speaking to him like that, but it seems paltry compared how unwell you feel.

There’s a moment of silence before he rises again, making his way to the sink, taking a plastic cup from a dispenser beside it and filling it with water. He doesn’t drink it, though. He moves over to you and without saying a word, takes your chin in one hand, lifting the edge of the cup to your lips with the other. “Look at me.” You resist at first, but he merely gives your chin a solitary, singular shake. “Look. At. Me.”

You relent, and it’s only after you gaze up at him that he tilts the cup enough to let you drink. He studies your face as you do so, his own face seemingly expressionless. “There’s a bitterness in you. Something that never seems to go away.” He tilts the cup more, causing some of the water to escape your lips, running down your lips and onto your chest. It’s cold, but it’s a relief against your hot skin. “I’m always fascinated when I come across repressed rage like yours. Someone with impeccably well controlled anger issues. Although I doubt you’d understand.” He exhales as you finish the water, not letting go of your chin. “If you were more competent, I’d promote you.” As he says this, you pull your chin back, offended, and you see him do something you never thought you’d see -- smile. It’s a tiny one, only in the corners of his mouth, but it’s there. “There’s more here than the First Order,” he muses. “Something hurt you, didn’t it? I wonder what.”

“...Get away from me.” Usually you’d field this, being a subordinate, but you’re too uncomfortable to care right now. Your brain feels like it’s boiling. You feel like you’re sitting next to a fire, but the layer of sweat that’s covering your body is cold at the same time. 

He obliges, stepping back, his eyes fixated on you as he does so. It’s then that he reaches out and your head forcefully tilts upwards, the same way it did when he had a grip on it. “I can find out.”

And then it begins. The rumbling. The sensation of sandpaper raking over your brain, fingers prying it apart at the centre. You groan in pain, teeth gritting. You have never, ever felt something like this before, but you’re not willing to try and fight against it, either. Even if you wanted to, you’re hardly strong enough.

It seems to last an eternity, and when he finally releases you, tears are running down your face. You whimper and double over in the bed, your arms over your head, trying to recover from… whatever  _ that _ was. 

“Interesting,” he remarks. “No trauma. No significant loss or hardship. Just anger.” He gives a sharp exhale, and as you eye him from between your arms, you could almost mistake it for a chuckle. “You’re just a bitch.”

Your teeth clench against each other, your pulse rising with the blatant insult. “Fuck you,” you wheeze, throwing caution to the wall. If he’s willing to call you a bitch, he’s already probably more than willing to kill you. 

“There it is.” The tiny smirk returns. “It always comes out eventually.”

Trembling from the fever, you sit yourself back up, your eyes locked with what you assume is going to be the man who kills you. “ _ Fuck. You. _ ”

He raises an eyebrow. “Years of pent up rage, bottled up and ready to explode, and that’s the best you’ve got?” He asks. “I’m disappointed.”

“Good. I’m not here to please you. I serve the First Order. Not you.”

He doesn’t move, completely unweathered by your defiance. If anything, he seems a little amused with it. “I was really hoping for something else,” he admits. “You just don’t like losing control. Or being wrong. Or failing. It angers you.”

“I’m done talking to you. I’m sure you’re going to have me discharged so just leave me--”

“You’re exactly like Hux.”

You’re an Intelligence Operative at your core, and you’ve been through interrogations before, both drills and real ones. You’ve been  _ trained _ by the First Order to not give in to emotional baiting like this. But this? Maybe it’s the fever. Maybe it’s knowing your career with the First Order is effectively over now. Maybe it’s the bright lights in here. Whatever it is, something about this statement breaks you, a swell of adrenalin rising into your chest, burning up the back of your neck as you spring to your feet. You charge him, reaching out and grabbing the hilt of the lightsaber in his belt, turning it on and holding it inches from his neck.

You're surprised at yourself. You’ve never held one of these before. It’s heavier than you expected, and if you actually needed to fight with it, you don’t doubt you’d be useless. 

You watch his left shoulder tense, and for a moment you’re convinced that this is how you’ll die. Instead, though, his left hand gently comes to sit on your hip, and your stomach drops. “You won’t,” he replies softly, his other hand rising to meet the one that’s holding the hilt of the lightsaber, all but enveloping it. His fingers gently guide your thumb to the blade’s power adjust, deactivating it. He’s someone you’d expect to do this with a vice-like grip, but he’s incredibly gentle with you. “You won’t.”

He guides your hand down and it suddenly dawns on you how tall he is. There’s eye contact, but you’re gazing up at him. The power dynamic is more visible to you than ever. 

He’s such an asshole, but  _ fuck _ he’s an attractive one.

“It’s ok,” he says, his hand moving from your hip back to your chin, the leather of his glove tracing all the way up the side of your body. “I like women like you.”

“What do you mean, like _ me _ ?” You ask.

He returns the lightsaber to his belt, the thumb on the front of your chin rising up to run over the bottom of your lip. Oh. “Angry. Difficult.” He pauses, leaning in and not giving, but  _ taking _ a kiss from you, your face still in his grip. “Just a bitch.”  _ Oh. _ Okay. 

You try and find the right words to say, or even just a way to process this sudden change in dynamic, but you don’t get the chance. He backs you up against the cot, and although you prepare to fall back onto it, he stops you, holding you up with… oh. You’ve seen him use this power to throw people (usually Hux) across rooms before, but you’ve never experienced The Force.  _ That’s _ what it feels like. His hands move to your waist, turning you around, your back to him. “You love it, don’t you?” He asks, his fingers moving to unbutton your pants, one hand sliding down and past the waistband of your underwear. “Being told exactly what you are.”

Is he kidding? You’re running a fever.  _ He _ is running a fever, and he’s  _ Kylo Ren _ and you’re just an Intelligence Commander and -- one leather-clad finger immediately finds your clit, grazing over it ever-so-gently. It’s almost torturous. “... _ Fuck, _ ” you manage to whisper to yourself.

“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he says, his free arm coming to wrap around your waist. “But I don’t think it’ll come to that, will it?” 

You arch your back into him, wanting a stronger touch. He obliges, giving you what you want for a second, but as you start to grind against him, he stops. You don’t whine, exactly, but the exhale you give is enough to communicate your disappointment.

“I’m sorry, did you want me to keep going?” He asks, the hand that was just in your pants reaching up to grip a fist full of your hair at the scalp, causing it to pull at the chignon at the base of your skull. “Maybe I’ll make you get on your knees and put your mouth to work…” he takes a second, tightening the grip a little, any hint of resistance you had absolutely melting. “But I don’t trust you not to bite me.” A whimper escapes your throat and you  _ feel _ his chest let out a singular laugh of amusement. “ _ Oh, _ you like this, don’t you?” He asks, his voice lowering, the arm bracing your torso moving to lift up your under singlet, exposing the flesh beneath. “What gets you off more: willingly giving up control, or taking the place meant for you and submitting to a superior?”

You don’t respond, unsure what to say as he continues lifting the singlet until it’s bundled up at the top of your chest, exposing your bra. “Which. One?” He demands, giving your hair a gentle yank. 

You’re a little frozen on this. In all honesty, it’s a pretty deep psychological question to ask a person, let alone a person with a fever who is in the seventh level of horny right now. You can only think of one answer that will make him happy. “Fuck you, Ren.”

“Submitting to a superior it is,” he says, tugging down on your bra until your breasts spill over the top, completely exposed. His gloved hand then returns below your pants, fingers resuming in teasing and coaxing you. His other hand drifts down from the hair it’s holding, fingers diving into your chignon and unfastening it, tossing the pins to the floor until it unravels into a ponytail. He yanks the final tie from your hair, freeing it only momentarily before he grabs the length in his fist. He winds your hair around his hand, before giving a firm tug, your head snapping back with it. “Better.”

You whine into his touch as he finally,  _ finally _ increases the pressure of it. You want to grind against his hand so badly, but the pressure of The Force against you renders you all but immobile. “Fuck,” you whimper again. 

Another tug on your hair. “Language,” he warns you.

“You’ve been…” you trail off, taking a breath, “You’ve been calling me a bitch for.. for…” his middle finger joins his index finger against your clit and you press your lips together to try and stifle a moan, not wanting to give him the satisfaction just yet. 

“I’m your superior,” he reminds you, breath hot against your ear. “I can call you whatever I want.”

Your core tenses, something about that hitting different. The pace of his fingerwork speeds up, and there’s… something else. Like something is at your entrance. You flinch -- your pants are still on, how could --

Oh  _ shit. _

You cry out in what’s half arousal and half confusion as you feel the sensation of something pushing into you. At first, you think that maybe it’s his thumb, but it makes no sense given the position of his hand. 

“ _ This _ is why I’m your superior,” he remarks. It feels so much like he’s fucking you, but unless he’s cut open your pants without realising… 

Oh fuck. This is The Force, isn’t it?

He continues to rub your clit in circular motions as the… feeling starts to… it fucks you. It’s just fucking you, there’s no other way to describe it. You cry out, closing the ability to even pretend you’re not into this anymore. Who are you kidding? You can’t even feel the fever anymore. Another thrust and you can’t help it, moaning into the air. The hand in your hair releases you, moving to your face, covering your mouth and filling your senses with the scent of leather. “Do you want the whole medical bay to know?” He asks. “Maybe you do. It’s natural for someone of your inferiority to flaunt an achievement like this.”

Again, you’re speechless. The pace of the feeling picks up and he moves his hand from your mouth to your breast, gripping it as you do your best to oblige his request, doing your best to convert what you can into quiet whimpers and whines. “That’s right,” he says, squeezing your breast in his hand, his face brushing against the side of yours. “Do you know why I like women like you?” He asks. You don’t respond, and suddenly all motion stops, both his fingers and The Force inside you.

You whine in protest, but he only insists. “Do you know why?” He asks again.

“W-why?” You ask. 

To your relief, he starts again, back to the pace you were before, your body relaxing into it again. “Because breaking in angry bitches like you is much more satisfying.” Your core tenses again. Something about this-- “You like being called a bitch, don’t you?” He asks, as if he’s read your mind. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” he warns. “I expect an answer.”

You consider not playing along, reality seeping in for a tiny second. You’re currently in medical quarantine with a contagious disease, getting fingered by one of your commanding Generals. But then the pace picks up again and your brain feels like it’s slid out of your head and into your spine. “Yes,” you moan, “I love it when you call me a bitch.”

“Why is that?” He asks.

“Because I’m a bitch,” you reply, feeling confident for the first time in this entire encounter that you know exactly what he wants to hear. “I’m a bitch who needs to know her place.”

The sound he makes now is the hottest thing you’ve heard in a long time, and it’s somewhere between a quiet rumble of satisfaction and a genuine moan. “Good,” he says, ramping up the speed of both The Force and his fingers. “And what’s your place?” He asks.

_ Fuck _ it feels amazing. The Force inside you is just the right fit, filling you completely, hitting all the right spots. You can feel it coming, your legs starting to quiver, your abdomen tightening. You’re totally powerless, at the mercy of one of the most feared men in the galaxy who could kill you with a wave of his hand. This is dangerous, but you  _ love _ it, and you love surrendering to it. “Under you.”

“ _ Good. _ ” His hand quickly comes to your face, turning it to you, and he kisses you. It’s rough. It’s messy. Your teeth bang together and there’s little control to it. But none of that matters. His reward for your obedience is enough to not just push you over the edge, but throw you. You can feel yourself tightening around the…  _ nothing _ inside you, your back arching so hard that you can feel himself tense to keep you where you are. You bite down on your lip, doing your best to stifle the sounds of you cumming mercilessly. The inability to buck your hips causes your pelvic muscles to absolutely spasm, making everything twice as intense until eventually, somehow, by miracle, you manage to catch your breath, the eruption inside you dulling down to a peaceful quiet.

The Force inside you vanishes, followed by that which is holding you up and stationary. You collapse onto the cot, a sweaty, panting, nearly cross-eyed mess. You’re fully aware he’s still standing where he was, looming over you, watching, but you don’t care. None of this was the outcome you were expecting, but it’s better than what you originally thought you had coming. He turns around, making his way back to his cot without another word, sitting back down and retrieving his helmet.

He’s probably not a cuddler, is he? That shouldn’t surprise you, really. You can’t say you expected sex at all, let alone any aftercare. That’ll be it, you suppose, turning your head to watch him place his helmet back on with a click of the mechanisms inside it. You’ll probably be expected to keep this a secret. Never speak of it again. Maybe he’ll let you keep your job in exchange for your silence. 

“From now on, you’ll report to me and only me,” he says bluntly, making you flinch a little, dragging your mind out of the afterglow and back into the room. “Directly.”

Not what you expected, but you’re not in a place to question his new decree, not while you’re sweating through your pants with your tits out, anyway. You wonder if this is what he’s had in mind the whole time. You wonder if he has a fetish for angering women. You wonder if he’s done this before with someone else.

Whatever. Reporting to him means not reporting to Hux anymore.

It's a win-win.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u liked it ;) I'm new to writing Kylo Ren so I genuinely hope that was acceptable. If people like it enough, I might follow up a little.


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